Luck is Relative
by Lady Melisande Grey
Summary: Prequel to the upcoming Full Circle Chronicles. PLEASE READ FIRST.


Author's Note: If you are reading this and the Full Circle in order, I thank you. Things simply will not make sense if you go out of order. This is a very short but crucial section to the story and making it a prologue wouldn't do it justice. If you notice any discrepancies in timeline, think of it as an alternate universe born for my own adamant opinions.

Tommy watched the little girl at a distance as she played apart from the others. The light drizzle glossed over the blacktop of the orphanage play yard and damped the child's hair and Tommy's spirits. She was maybe six or seven years old, but tall and physically mature enough to be mistaken for nine or ten. Her hair was dark and curly and in a tight braid, tied off with a green ribbon that was fraying into nothingness. Her clothes were too big, jeans and a neon green raincoat. She was fighting with a basketball that was slowly deflating. It was a sad sight, the poor city girl trying to make something go right for herself. It was a scene he vaguely remembered, from a youth he wished he could forget.

The child seemed so familiar, with a round face, wise green eyes and long, ungainly limbs. But there was an anger in her he'd only seen in one other person and certainly not to the same magnitude. He'd been that angry with the world once. But had he been so young? Had he been so innocent yet so world weary?

Suddenly, she growled and flung the ball at the chain link fence separating her from the rest of the world. She slumped against the brick wall and buried her face in her arms. He hurt just watching her. She was so alone and so tortured, so starved. He started to approach her, concern etched on his face.

"Kyler!" The little girl's head shot up, tears on her slightly grubby face. There was a person in front of her where none had stood before. It- no, He, it was a man's voice at least- wore green robes like some wizard or monk, with dragons embroidered on the edges. What could be seen of his face, was pale as milk with an odd greenish tinge.

"Who're you?" She sniffled. She wiped her tears with the back of a grimy hand.

"A friend," he said simply. He dropped to her level and half smiled at her. "I have a gift for you."

The child looked at him in dubious reproach. "Sister Elizabeth says I'm not supposed to take gifts from strangers," she informed him.

"That's Sister Elizabeth," he shrugged, "Not you. What do you think?"

The girl thought for a moment. "What's the catch?" she asked. Tommy had to resist the urge to laugh. She sounded so mature and skeptical, like someone Tommy had known in school.

"Someday," he said, "when you've grown up and suffered through much more than this, you'll have to fight for this world. Sometimes it'll be kind, sometimes it'll be cruel, but you'll have to help save it. Whether you want to or not. It'll be hard, but you will be happy in the end."

"Will I meet Mom and Dad?" the child asked, looking hopeful.

The man laughed, "I guarantee it, little one."

"Okay!" she said finally. The man held something metallic, tarnished and circular out and the child took it. Then, as silently and strangely as he appeared, he was gone.

Tommy awoke with a start. Rain slicked the windows and grayed the light. He lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling, wracking his memory. He knew the green man, and the name Kyler sounded familiar. But who were they?

One answer came to him, illuminating like the dawn. Kyler, a name so unusual and so boyish, Tommy had suggested the child be named Kelly or Kayleigh instead. But, Kyler...

Kyler was the name of a child born 15 years ago. To a Mr. and Mrs. Cranston of Angel Grove, California.

Behind the cloud cover, the sun was taking its own sweet time rising. Dr. Oliver sat up in bed, trying to sort out his jumbled memories. His youthful fault of forgetfulness had been tamed into an occasional absentminded memory loss. And yet, somehow, he felt this was something to important for anyone to forget. His dark eyes clouded as he lost himself in memories of a darker, angrier, self.

He vaguely remembered the events of his junior year summer. How two of his friends had gotten married quietly and found themselves parents. Out of love, the child had been given to the Sisters of Charity in San Fransisco. She would be safe there, as well, giving them both time to grow. So much of it was clouded by the battle for good and evil, he couldn't see it.

Dr. Oliver got up and went downstairs. The mail sat on his desk, unsorted, unopened, untouched for nearly 24 hours. He sorted them carefully on impulse, bills, junk and letters from old colleagues. There, two letters from the bottom, was a printed envelope from San Fransisco. The handwriting was labored, as though written by someone for whom neat, legible, writing was an alien concept.

Holding as carefully as he would any fossil, he opened it and drew out a three pages of typed paper. Something escaped the papers like a cubist's butterfly, coming to rest on the floor with the word Kodak facing him and multiplying. He picked it up and turned it over. He felt his heart race and mouth go dry.

The face was the girl from his dream, older, somewhat more restrained, but still depressed, raging like a mad dog under her stiffly posed frozen smile. Her hair still curled darkly over her mint green eyes. Her face had gained freckles and a strong, steadfast jaw. She seemed totally comfortable in her oversized Army surplus fatigues, as though she'd chosen them that day to spite the photographer. But the olive drab was quite becoming on her. She wore them like less of a modern soldier and more of an ancient Amazon whose armor was at the shop just at the moment. Dr. Oliver decided he rather liked the tough little brawler.

Dear Sir, the letter began, My name is Kyler Verity Yuriko Cranston. I'm fifteen years old and I live in San Fransisco. This may sound crazy, but I had a dream about you and my parents. I think they were my parents. I know its you, because my science teacher has a picture of you from when you worked on a dig together. Her name is Julia Davidson, if that rings a bell. It did. Julia had been a mousy little pistol who had once smashed a scorpion with a thrown notebook. She'd had a temper and had once informed him and Smitty just what she thought of them and their stubborn refusal to leave a site when a snowstorm was coming. The words "machismo", "testosterone" and "stupidity" had been slung around, usually in the same sentences. He had a feeling he knew which picture she had, too. It had been taken on April Fools Day as he'd been pouring salt laced sugar into his coffee.

He continued to read. Kyler admitted she wasn't a great student or athlete, but that she had a passion for dancing and science fiction. She was taller by a good foot than her classmates, tended to anger easily and had a foul mouth that frequently found a bar of soap in it. She wasn't devoutly Catholic, but she enjoyed the ritual and decor at least. She seemed to ramble a bit more, nervously and seeming to inch towards something and hurry away in shame.

Finally, the truth fell out in one gasp. After two pages of tentative introduction and small talk in flawless grammar, she gathered what little nerve she had and plowed forward. Dr. Oliver, you have to hear me out here, no matter how crazy it sounds or how weird I seem, because I need you, my godfather, the only family I can even locate, now more than ever, because I just can't live here, not anymore, and in my dream you promised my dad that as soon as you could you'd take me in, so please, help me, please.

He thought about it. He had made that promise, hadn't he? But he couldn't! She wasn't safe in his house, when he was running about saving the world and teaching. But he'd promised and Kyler was desperate for someone who could be real family. She'd said over and over that she liked the nuns but they weren't really her family and it showed. So, maybe, the world could take a backseat for a moment or two...

Kyler Cranston shoved the contraband cupcake in her mouth and turned the page. She was lost in the fight between Jedi and Sith, former friends, battling for the honor of the Sith's heartbroken lover. The Jedi, a girl much like her, had backed the Sith against a wall and was in danger of going to the Dark Side herself. Now, with lightsaber at her opponent's throat, would be the girl Jedi's moment of truth. Would she turn, her fury prevailing over her compassion or would she let him live and forgive him, sacrificing her life for her sanity's sake? Dark curls hung around her face in equal anxiousness. Her palms were sweating.

Someone shook the bunk bed, causing her to throw the covers back from her head.

"What?" she snarled, "Do you mind? I'm in the middle of the most crucial duel in Star Wars expanded universe history!"

"Letter for you, pizzaface," The girl sneered. She shoved it at her and stalked away.

Kyler muttered a handful of choice words and ripped it open. The paper inside bore three lines.

Kyler,

When do you want to meet me and where?

Your Godfather.


End file.
